


Let Me Tell You A Story

by TheAbominableToaster



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, F/M, I'll add pairings as they come up, M/M, Tags, This should be fun., how do i tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAbominableToaster/pseuds/TheAbominableToaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which one Dirk Strider, elder brother in the Strider clan, recounts a tale of his past to a distraught younger Dave. </p>
<p>Teenage love and pining, terrible humor, and a large amount of luck holds this story together. Jake English is oblivious as per usual, Dirk is frustrated, Roxy is a lot more perceptive than one might think, and Jane just might tie the whole thing together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Tell You A Story

Stories.   
That's how all these stupidly incredible moments start, isn’t it. Something unexpected combined with a touch of emotion, and Bob's not actually your uncle we have the beginnings of our scene, and the setting of our tale to come soon afterwards.   
A story within a story, if you will.  
-  
Your name is Dirk Strider, though not many people refer to you by that moniker any more. Instead, you go by Bro, and that’s perfectly alright by you. This is the kind of introduction you’d generally make, accompanied with a casual wave of gloved hand.   
It’s an incredibly muggy day in Houston, the kind where nobody wanted to wear shirts and the air-conditioning companies raked in profits on top of more profits. All the windows were open in your apartment, and they had been for most of the morning now.  
The door, however, hadn’t been, so when it did your sleepy attentions had immediately been drawn to it.  
That was when Dave had walked in, literally teetering on the precipice of major waterworks.   
That familiar brotherly urge had welled up inside of you, commanding you to beat the living daylights out of whoever had caused this, so that all they had left in their sorry carcass was a hefty dose of regret and a heftier ambulance fee.  
Before you could even consider acting on said instincts, there were arms around your lounging middle, a head in the crook of your shoulder, and real, warm tears tracking down the back of your shirt.  
Fuck.  
You make a half-hearted attempt to push Dave off of you, but for such a slight kid he can cling enough to make a barnacle jealous. So, you move sideways to accommodate the sudden embrace attack, your little brother falling ass-backwards onto the couch, only half of him fitting on your torso, weighing down on your chest like a familiar, familial conscience. That bizarre feeling of nostalgia hits you like a freight train of memory, and you remember, for a flash, when this used to be a semi-regular occurrence, and the entirety of the younger Strider brother fit on the expanse of your chest, curled up like a ball of limbs and sadness.  
Words, whispered aloud into the fabric of your shirt, cut your reverie short. Hopefully an explanation is a-coming.  
"He hates me." A sniff. "Hates my sorry-ass guts. Eyeballs to damned rotting entrails."  
And the problem became glaringly clear.  
John motherfucking Egbert, the apple of your little bro's eye. His entire god-damned world, wrapped up into a stocky sky-eyed package with extra incisors to boot. They'd been friends for as long as you care to remember, and now boyfriends for as long as Dave would gush (in his way) about him for. But a disturbingly large portion of that time - at least lately - had been spent fighting. When they were happy, it almost blinded you how radiant the two were. As cheesy as it sounded, they really were made for each other. But when they went at it... Let's just say, it was bad.  
You sigh, rubbing Dave's back in little concentric circles, feeling those shuddering breaths rattling around in his thin-boned ribcage.  
"Alright. How's about this. I tell you a story, you can cry all you damned want; and I'll keep the beating of Egbert to the interior of my mind."  
That got Dave's attention. He lifted his head, little blonde eyelashes all clumped together thanks to tears. Even though he's trying so very hard to keep his composure, Dave's words are broken between by shaking, uneasy breaths.   
"Bro. Bro. I know you love me and all, but I'm getting on in years, and I’ve accumulated a few too many to be eligible for story time. Sorry to crush your prospective minstrel dreams. Maybe there's a nearby inn that'll pay you coin and ale for your words of wisdom."   
The amount of words coming out of his mouth might've just been enough to convince you that he was feeling better, yet you could still hear those tiny cracks and fractures in his voice; and they spoke volumes louder.  
You sigh. "Shut up. I hate to say this, but we have to make it happen, right the hell now. I'm in the mood for talking, so let me mouth off in your general direction and you can wring yourself out. It's a rare thing. Don't waste this opportunity," you deadpan, fixing him with a stare.  
Matching your level of sarcasm (at least in actions), Dave rolls his eyes and leans his head against your chest, fisting his hand in the thin white material covering it.  
Clingy little asshole.  
You love him so much. Family-wise, but it’s still love.  
The story that you need to tell is on the tip of your tongue, but it might take a while to get into it. It’s complicated, stupid, and makes you cringe. It’s your past, though it may as well have been another life.   
"So. I was seventeen. Yeah, I know. Keep any gasps of shock inside the vehicle at all times.   
And I was balls-deep in love with my best friend."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how often I'll update - I suppose once a week, maybe more often if I have a hit of inspiration. This has no planned plot, so wherever it goes will be a surprise to both you and me.


End file.
